


Over a Barrel

by Melanie_Athene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M, Pre-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clean house, dirty mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over a Barrel

**Author's Note:**

> 2004 Golden Mushroom Awards Nominee for 'Most Ingenious Sacrifice of Clothing' and 'Best Stress Test on Non-Bedroom Furniture'.

Samwise Gamgee was the perfect servant. Capable, conscientious and always eager to please. Which is why, when he happened to overhear his master dolefully bemoaning the sorry state of his smial, he appeared (bucket and mop in hand) on Frodo's doorstep bright and early the very next day.

“Morning, sir,” Sam said shyly. “Since it's rainy out I thought I'd get an early start on the fall cleaning.”

Frodo cast an inquiring glance at the cloudless blue of the sky, but simply stepped aside and waved Sam in through the door. “Splendid idea, Sam,” he smiled. “I'll just slip into my study and keep out of your way.”

Sam nodded and headed for the kitchen. “I'll try not to inconvenience you with any racket, sir.” Whistling cheerfully, he bustled off.

In spite of the occasional clang or clatter drifting down the hall, Frodo soon lost himself in his latest translation, an immensely fascinating but confoundedly worded treatise.

A savage crack of thunder abruptly tore him from his deep concentration. Frowning and stretching cramped muscles, Frodo quickly moved to pull the study window closed. “How does he do it?” he wondered, staring at the rain now pounding down. “How could he possibly know?”

Ah, but young Samwise was indeed a most remarkable hobbit. Both in intellect . . . and in corporeal measure.

 _Sam is certainly not the gangly, awkward child he used to be,_ Frodo mused. _Not that it's my place to notice those broad shoulders, the strength and gentleness in his hands, the flecks of green in his eyes, the --_ Frodo blinked and hastily turned away from both window and thoughts best left unthought.

“Tea,” he mumbled. “It must be time for tea.”

Dark as the day had become, it was hard to judge the time. Frodo made his way towards the kitchen, pausing to admire how the woodwork in the hallway gleamed with freshly applied wax, and glancing into open doorways as he passed. The clutter in his bedroom had been tidied away: his bed linens changed, the surfaces of his bureau and nightstand buffed and polished, and all his scattered, dirty laundry whisked away. Spare bedrooms and Bilbo's old room were immaculate. And the kitchen positively sparkled -- it seemed a shame to mess it up again.

But where was Sam? Had he finished up and dashed for home ahead of the storm?

 _It's unlike him to leave without saying good-bye._ Frodo frowned. And indeed, now that he took the time to notice it, the cellar door stood slightly ajar. He peered down the narrow staircase. Yes, a light flickered and the rumble of Sam's voice could be faintly heard.

Frodo padded softly down the stairs, meaning to casually ask 'how goes it, Sam?', but his breath caught in his throat and he found he could not speak at all.

It was obvious Sam hadn't heard him. He was hard at work, shifting crates and baskets from one spot to another so that he might sweep the floor before re-organizing them in more orderly stacks. In spite of the chill of the dank cellar, a light coat of sweat had plastered his work-worn shirt to his back, clearly defining each rippling muscle.

Sam hummed a little tune as he laboured, and Frodo couldn't help but smile. It was an elvish ballad -- one he himself had been singing a few days ago while planning out how to translate it to the common tongue. Sam had been working in the garden. Apparently, he'd also been listening to Frodo attentively enough to retain the tune and a few lines of the chorus. Did he know the meaning of the plaintive words he sang? The emotion was certainly in evidence. Had Sam's keen ear discerned the same note of wistfulness in his master's voice?

“Sam...” Frodo whispered, a fierce swell of longing rising in his breast and washing unguardedly across his face.

Sam almost dropped a crate on his foot in his haste to turn around.

Frodo quickly schooled his expression into a friendly smile. “I'm sorry, Sam. I didn't mean to startle you,” he apologized, moving further into the circle of light Sam's lantern cast.

“You gave me a turn there, Mr. Frodo, no mistakin' that.” Sam's answering smile was free and sunny.

“You've quite a project going on here,” Frodo noted.

“Aye, Sam agreed ruefully. “I meant to straighten things up a mite and then prepare a bit of luncheon to lure you away from your desk while I tidied up in there.” He swiped a hand across his forehead, leaving a trail of grime behind. “But it seems I'm well and truly into it here. Beggin' your pardon, sir, but it won't be 'til tomorrow that I get 'round to your study.”

“Don't worry about it, Sam,” Frodo reassured him. His eyes drifted thoughtfully around the ill-lit, cluttered room. Setting things to order here was a daunting task for a single hobbit, even for one as efficient as Sam. “Maybe I could help you?” he wondered aloud.

“Oh no, sir!” Sam seemed shocked at the very notion.

Frodo laughed. “Come now, Samwise. I'm not afraid of a little dust and honest labour.”

“T'wouldn't be proper, sir,” Sam protested. “What would folks say?”

Frodo glanced around as if checking for all those folks and their prying eyes. “Well, I won't tell if you won't.” He dimpled impishly. “Come, Sam, tell me what to do.”

Sam stared at the rare vision of his master rolling up his sleeves, baring those slender, ivory forearms so casually. “Er . . .” he said. Frodo unbuttoned his weskit, gracefully shrugged free and hung it on a handy peg. “Um . . .” said Sam, eyes locking on two pebbled nubs rising darkly beneath Frodo's fine, snow-white shirt. Hastily he jerked his gaze back up to face-level just as Frodo turned his own head and lifted an inquiring eyebrow. “Well,” he said reluctantly, “Mayhap, you could take an inventory?”

“An excellent suggestion!” Frodo approved. “I've been meaning to do that for ages. I'll just go fetch some paper and another lamp or two.”

A second time Sam's hand trailed across his brow, and this time dipped to wipe a bead of sweat from his upper lip as well. _Stop dithering like a lovesick lass_ , he chided himself.

Drawn like a moth to a flame, he slowly approached Frodo's discarded weskit. _Should move that to a safer spot_ , he mused absentmindedly, breathing in the lingering traces of his master's scent. Daringly, his nose brushed against the soft fabric, and he inhaled deeply, as if to impress the finest of fragrances on his memory.

A creak of the cellar steps alerted him to Frodo's return. He jumped back and guiltily scrubbed his hands across his face.

Sam had to admit a division of labour made more sense than trying to do everything himself. While he provided most of the brute force, Frodo trailed in his wake, writing detailed notes in a flowing hand. Not that his master was averse to physical labour. With surprising strength for one so slight, he bent his shoulder to help lift the heavier items. His breath was sweet and pleasing on Sam's cheek as they wrestled with a particularly heavy trunk, near to bulging at the seams with long-forgotten mathoms and relics from Bilbo's traveling days.

As Sam drifted over to a far corner to sort through various lengths of lumber, Frodo determined to take stock of his wine racks.

“What _is_ this?” he grumbled, peering at a dirt-encrusted label. Plopping himself down on an up-ended crate, Frodo clasped the bottle between his thighs and tugged out his shirt-tail to clean the dust away. His tongue peeped pinkly out from between his teeth as he frowned in concentration. The cloth swiped up and down, swirled round and round in a rhythmic pumping motion . . .

From across the room, Sam happened to glance over at his master and his jaw dropped near to the floor. _Dear Lady, doesn't he know what it looks like he's doing?_

Expanses of Frodo's lean, pale torso appeared and disappeared as his shirt rose and fell. At the last possible second, Sam turned a desperate whimper into a cough.

Frodo shot him a look of concern. “Is the dust getting to you, Sam? It does seem close in here.”

“I--I need a drink of water,” Sam choked.

“There's a bit of ale left in that cask,” Frodo gestured. He stood and took down another bottle. “Help yourself.” he offered. Second bottle clamped firmly in position, he diligently stroked it as he had the first.

 _I don't think I can make it up the stairs_ , Sam thought wildly. Legs wobbling more than a little, he staggered over to the indicated cask. With no cup to be found, he had to improvise as best he could . . .

Frodo glanced up to check on his friend's condition and almost dropped the bottle he was holding. _Oh sweet Eru . . . Sam . . ._

Sam was on his knees. Eyes closed, generous mouth tilted up to engulf the spigot. Froth trickled down his chin as he swallowed hungrily. Licking his lips, he turned his head and froze, still on his knees, captured by the burning blue flame of Frodo's eyes, the perfect “O” of astonishment shaping his mouth . . .

“I--I'm sorry, sir,” he gasped, quickly scrambling to his feet. “What you must think of my manners! Me Gaffer would have a word or two to say, no doubtin' that -- and a cuff aside my head as well.”

“No . . . no . . . think nothing of it, Sam.” Frodo managed. “You . . . eh, you caught me by surprise, that's all.” He smiled weakly. “I'm pleased you feel comfortable enough to be yourself when we're together.” _Alone . . . together . . ._

“Well . . .” Sam's eyes fell to his furry toes. “Thank you, sir,” he mumbled. _Though I can't say 'comfortable' is exactly the way you make me feel . . ._

“Yes, well . . .” Frodo sent his glance flickering across the room. “What's left to do, Sam?”

Sam nodded to several lines of barrels laid out on their sides, some stacked in a haphazard pyramid. “I expect most of 'em are empty,” he mused. “No sense their takin' up space down here if so -- but it'll be right tricky settin' them to rights. One wrong move and the whole lot could come crashin' down. “

Frodo nodded and approached the barrels with due caution. “This seems a good place to start,” he observed, bending over to peer at two large barrels slightly offset from the rest. “Oh, bother!”

“Sir?”

“I've dropped my list -- it slipped out of my pocket.”

“Mind you're careful, there, Mr. Frodo. Just let me just get something to wedge between those barrels so they don't roll.” Sam swiftly headed for the lumber pile.

“I'm fine, Sam.” Frodo leaned on the first barrel in the line. “I see it! It's just . . . there!” Frodo draped himself over the barrel, perky bottom pointing to the ceiling as he carefully inched himself forward. “I--I have it.”

But as he made to slither back off the barrel, the motion tipped it and it began to roll. In desperation, Frodo flung his full weight forward, successfully stopping the roll in the opposite direction, and reversing the barrel to it's original position.

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam exclaimed, dropping his armful of lumber with a clatter.

“I'm fine, Sam,” Frodo repeated somewhat breathlessly. “Um . . .” He wiggled experimentally. “No. I'm not. I seem to be stuck here, Sam.”

“Your arm?” Sam wailed. “Are you hurt?”

“No . . . no,” Frodo hastened to reassure him, even waving the appendage to prove it was not endangered. “It's just my shirt-tail . . . It's caught between these blasted barrels.”

“Don't move!” Sam ordered. “Your thrashing about is making the other stack wobble.” He stood behind his master, wringing his hands fretfully. “Best let me shore them up,” he advised.

“Take your time, Sam,” Frodo chuckled. “It would appear I am not going anywhere.”

Sam hastened to prop up the threatening barrels, then placed another thick board on the floor a few inches from the barrel Frodo was on so it would not roll too far and drag him under.

“Try leaning backwards now,” Sam urged, dragging over a crate and standing on it to better survey the situation.

But the contents of the barrel had shifted, and it stubbornly refused to roll. Frodo's rump wriggled enticingly to no avail.

Sam placed both hands on his hips and gave the matter serious thought. “Can you unbutton your shirt and slip your arms out?” he suggested.

“I can't lift up enough,” Frodo grunted. “I'm on too short a tether. Can you give the barrel a shove, Sam?”

“I can't get 'round to push, sir,” Sam said. “Mayhap, if we both try to give it a roll it at the same time?” Hesitantly, he hovered over Frodo, then gently lowered himself full-length down upon his master. “Am I too heavy for you, sir?” he asked.

“Umph,” Frodo groaned. “No, Sam, you're . . . fine.” _Good . . . wonderful . . ._

“On three, then,” Sam warned, trying hard to ignore how soft a mattress his master's body made. “One . . . two . . three!”

“Unnnnh,” Frodo moaned. The barrel remained unmoved.

“Maybe if I try this,” Sam said. He pressed yet more firmly against Frodo, and his arms stretched down until his hands clasped around the stubborn shirt-tail.

“I felt it move!” Frodo exclaimed.

Sam gritted his teeth and tugged on the recalcitrant cloth, inadvertently grinding himself against his master.

“Uhhhhh . . . Harder, Sam,” Frodo demanded.

Panting and sweating with effort, the two hobbits began to move in unison.

“Harder! Almost there . . . Yes, Sam! Harder! Now!!!”

And with a rip of fabric, Frodo was free.

He lay there, still draped across the barrel, Sam a warm and heavy weight across his back. A hard protuberance twitched against the inside of Frodo's thigh. An answering ache throbbed in his own groin.

_Oh . . . my . . ._

Sam eased himself back down to the floor. Face suffused with crimson, he simply stood there, not knowing where to look, which way to run. There was nowhere left to hide. His deepest, darkest secret had been revealed. Numbly, he watched as Frodo slid down and slowly turned around to face him.

“Sam --”

“I'll go now, Mr. Frodo. You don't have to say it. I won't never be botherin' you again.”

“ _Sam_ \--”

“Please, sir. Just let me go,” Sam whispered, and closed his eyes.

“Oh, Sam . . .”

Warm, slim fingers twined themselves around Sam's trembling hands.

“My dearest, _dearest_ Sam . . . Don't you know I feel the same way about you?”

In total disbelief, Sam opened his eyes. _Could this be true?_

Frodo held him captive with the pure emotion shining in his blue eyes. Daringly, Sam brought his fingers up to curve against Frodo's blushing cheek. And Frodo gently sighed and leaned trustingly into Sam's hand.

“Frodo . . .” Sam breathed.

In reply, Frodo tilted his face forward until their lips brushed together in the lightest of light touches.

“ _Frodo_ ,” Sam moaned, sliding his hand around to cup his master's neck and draw him into a kiss that was not gentle at all.

Clumsy fingers scrabbled at the tiny pearl buttons of Frodo's shirt. Two let go with a little 'pop' and pinged to the stone floor. “Your poor shirt,” Sam murmured. “I think it's beyond repair . . .”

“Bugger the shirt,” Frodo growled, recapturing Sam's lips and plunging his tongue deep inside a mouth that opened willingly for the sweet invasion. Clever hands made short work of the misused garment, and swiftly divested Sam of his shirt as well. Nipping, licking, suckling, Frodo's mouth painted its way across the canvas of Sam's bared flesh, eliciting gasps and moans and sudden sharp outcries.

“I want you, Sam,” Frodo panted. “I want you in me -- now.” The entire afternoon had been one long, slow, agonizing tease. He'd had more than enough of foreplay.

“I -- we -- can't. Not here, I don't want to hurt you.”

“Coldbox . . . butter . . . now!” Frodo stated shortly. And let loose his grip on Sam that he might push him on his way.

From the corner of his eye as he stumbled to the coldbox, Sam saw Frodo drop his trousers and kick them free. _Oh glory and trumpets!_ Sam moaned and fumbled with the latch. By the time he turned around -- crock of butter in hand -- Frodo, bare as the day he was born, had climbed up on the crate and draped himself across that blessed barrel once again.

“ _Now_ , Sam,” Frodo repeated, casting a blistering come-hither look over his shoulder.

Sam obeyed. Vision narrowed to the irresistible temptation Frodo offered, he quickly scrambled up on the crate behind him -- realized his trousers were still on -- clambered down to remove them -- and leapt back up to grasp Frodo by the hips and eagerly buck against him. Blindly he reached for the butter, quickly slathered it on his throbbing erection, and pressed the tip against his master's opening.

Frodo moaned and lifted himself up slightly to welcome Sam's first tentative touch.

The barrel began to roll back. Sam thrust himself forward. Frodo and the barrel rolled forward too. Sam withdrew slightly. The barrel rolled back again.

Thrust . . . roll . . . thrust . . . roll . . . thrust . . .

Frodo writhed in ecstasy. The hard wood of the barrel dug into his ribs as he gasped for breath. The barrel rolled. To counter the motion, Frodo strained to reach his arms across the second barrel, and braced his hands against the wall.

Ah, that was better. Sam groaned his appreciation for the extra depths of penetration Frodo's move allowed. His rhythm quickened.

“Harder, Sam,” Frodo begged. “Harder . . . faster . . .” He pushed harder against the wall, arms trembling under the strain. The barrel creaked and rocked in concert with his moans.

“Frodo,” Sam said. “Frodo . . . Frodo . . . Fro--do!!!!” And he came, pumping wildly and spiraling helplessly into white-hot bliss.

“ _Saaaaaaaaaaaam!_ ” Frodo screamed, his answering release of seed trickling down the barrel's side.

As he slowly returned to consciousness, Sam found himself once again draped heavily across the body of his master. “Frodo-love?” he whispered.

“Mmmm?” a contented voice dreamily replied.

Sam slipped from his sated lover and reached out to pull him up into a tender embrace.

“Mmmm, Sam-love . . .” Frodo melted into Sam, nuzzling against his neck, a lazy tongue lapping at the salty moisture there. “You're much more comfortable than that old barrel.”

“I should hope so,” Sam chuckled.

Frodo lifted his head and shifted his attention to Sam's lips. “But maybe we should keep it, just in case we ever tire of my bed,” he murmured.

Sam's kiss was his reply.


End file.
